Maverick Missions
by Princess-Arulmozhi
Summary: [courtesy the Challenger]Obi-Wan should learn to not volunteer Qui-Gon for things. Dancing, hair loose and a gorgeous Jedi Master. What else do you want?


**Note**: An entry for the 'Getting Older' Challenge in the JC Forums. And inspired by various comments about a certain tall, Jedi Master (grin). I loved doing this :-) On with madness…!

* * *

**Maverick Missions**

_Beautiful. _

Admittedly, it took some time getting used to—but once one ignored the rather peculiar thrumming noise produced by insects peculiar to the Thra'alian landscape, the muted murmurs of crowds of citizens exchanging opinions on everything under the Thra'a suns…one could enjoy it. Very well, indeed.

Obi-Wan Kenobi watched the slender Thra'alian dancer swing herself in the gentle light of evening—he knew she was a female, from the long strings of beads she wore twisted round her hair, for male dancers did not ornament their hair at all—once, twice, thrice…and finally land gracefully on her feet, having turned a somersault into the bargain. She smiled, swept a grateful bow to her widely admiring spectators, and walked away, hips swinging, inviting cheers and calls from the male section of the audience.

It would have been even more pleasant…if a certain obnoxious Thra'alian Young Chief had not been present to mar his enjoyment of the performance. Helgheda, successor to the Chief of the clan of Warshida—and acting escort to the Jedi, who would be leaving for Coruscant after two weeks of negotiating trade-treaties between two or three war-torn Thra'a clans—could not seem to leave the Jedi well alone. That young man had insisted on accompanying them in all their meanderings throughout the day—the only day they had had to themselves, Obi-wan thought with a hint of irritation—and though helpful, had managed to grate on their nerves considerably, with his remarks on the Jedi way of life. Eventually, Qui-Gon had retired to their spare, but comfortable quarters located in the middle of the clan dwellings, leaving Obi-Wan to enjoy the seasonal Thra'alian festivities that were being carried on, as a result of successful negotiations. The master had also left him to the tender mercies of the Young Chief…and this, Obi-Wan appreciated not at all.

_/Don't abandon me, please. Not with him./ _had been his impassioned plea for mercy…to which Qui-Gon had answered with a characteristic quirk of his eye-brows.

_/Consider it a test of your diplomatic skills, padawan mine_./The master had then walked off, choosing to ignore a certain incomprehensible grunt made by his padawan…and the apprentice had been left to fend for himself as much as possible.

He had not been very successful, judging by the way Helgheda, well-built in a manner typical of all Thra'alians, towered over the slender padawan, his brown eyes twinkling.

"So, my little master of the physical plane," whispered that young man, placing a muscled hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder—for some reason, he persisted in addressing the seventeen year old this way—"dance our way, think you?"

Irritated his nerves may be, and he may not care for such condescension—but Obi-Wan was too much a Jedi to let his feelings bleed into conversation. "I don't understand," he replied, directing his eyes towards another dancer—a male, this time—who had walked to the middle of the circle formed by the spectators.

Helgheda raised his eye-brows, in a very fair imitation of Master Jinn. "Surely my little master does not fail to understand such a simple statement?" His cloying voice—assumed to irritate him, Obi-Wan knew—made the apprentice feel slightly nauseous. "The Thra'alian dance…it is breath-taking, is it not?"

"Very," came the dry answer. The drums had started beating out their steady, addictive rhythm. Obi-wan caught himself tapping his foot…and barely managed to stop himself. The movement, however, had not escaped Helgheda's notice.

"Our dances interest the little Jedi master. No?"

Obi-Wan smiled politely. "Certainly."

"And do they interest the taller Jedi master?"

"Master Jinn is always interested in local culture."

Helgheda threw him a look towards the huts, as though asking why Qui-Gon had retired, if he did possess such interest—but Obi-Wan had anticipated the question.

"He's in charge of the mission and has to report to Coruscant about our departure from Thra'a," replied the apprentice. That much was true, anyway. "He would certainly be here, if not for work. There is nothing that interests him, more than such festivities."

"Ah, so. But interest cannot equate talent. The great Jedi cannot hope to be master of our arts, can they?"

A tiny crease appeared in the middle of Obi-Wan's brows. "Chief 'Gheda, we find little opportunity for—ah—such diversion, during missions."

"Polite way, I think, of saying that you do not know."

The irritation rose up a notch. "We don't presume to know everything, Chief, 'Gheda," he turned his luminous eyes on the young man—and in spite of himself, Helgheda had to blink. "But we learn very quickly—if and when necessary." _Force, why did I say that? _

Helgheda spoke the very words Obi-Wan had been dreading—but the way he addressed it astonished the apprentice. "Of _your_ learning, young master, I have doubts none," spoke the young man, eyes mischievous. "But of your old master…many doubts, I harbour."

For a brief moment, the padawan had difficulty controlling his breathing. "I beg your pardon," he spoke, when he had retained usage of his voice. "_Old_…? My master is not…old."

Helgheda's eyes were full of understanding pity. "In your eyes, old he is not," murmured the young chief. "But look you, at our dancers. Look at their movements, their grace, their poise…think you, that your master can rival them?"

_What the_…? Obi-Wan experienced a strange sensation of other-worldliness, as a distinct prickling feeling slithered down his back. _Am I going to regret this_? "My master can rival your dancers—if it comes to that."

"Will it come to that, then, little master?" queried the sift-voiced Helgheda. "Challenge our dancers, can he?"

"Yes." Obi-Wan's voice rang strongly—and if he felt a trifle reckless, he managed to banish that emotion quickly.

Helgheda's eyes lit up in a smile of pure enjoyment. "Waited I have, for this, long enough," he spoke, walking closer towards the inner ring of spectators, and nudging Obi-wan along with him.

_I am going to regret this_.

* * *

"And that was that," finished Obi-Wan, heaving a deep sigh as he did so.

Night had fallen completely over Thra'a—the Warshida settlement now hummed with the silence that came of advanced hours. Pale clouds scudded over the night sky, and the moon showered weak, milky rays onto the surface.

Jedi master Qui-Gon Jinn sat at a small table built of some kind of local material, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His posture may have been relaxed, but his face belied any such assumption. And his next question attested to this act.

"Obi-Wan, how _could_ you?" the voice was subdued, in consideration of others in slumber…but the padawan, attuned to the master's nuances, barely kept himself from flinching.

"I'm sorry, master," he spoke evenly. "But under the circumstances…"

"I fail to see any circumstance, padawan, other than the fact that you've now created an entirely unnecessary complication—and embroiled me into it," came the master's precise tones, cutting into the night's still air. "As is usual. I was wondering about this mission's particularly peaceful conclusion—I thought too soon, it appears."

Obi-Wan turned away, towards the small window the let in the cool night air—Warshida did not possess Coruscant's sophistication, and therefore no paristeel surfaces lined the embrasures. "I apologize again, master, but I couldn't help it." He bit his lip—and a slight, speculative gleam lit his blue-green eyes. "If you had heard Helgheda…"

"We are supposed to be immune to local taunts, padawan," came Qui-Gon's answer, in measured tones. "I find it rather surprising that you were drawn into this piece of youngling audacity—considering your lately developed skills at avoiding such incidents—"

"He said you were old, master." Obi-Wan's eyes were still turned towards the window, and Qui-Gon could see little more than the padawan's rigid back. _Why was the boy shielding so tightly? _

"He said…_what_ did he say?"

"Old." Obi-Wan's voice rose slightly, and when the apprentice turned, the master was surprised at the hint of outrage he saw in the younger Jedi's brilliant eyes—now awash in a startling hue of green-grey. "That excuse for a _Lithlien_ wolf—forgive me—had the gall to call you old, to my face! That you could not master their dance, their grace, their poise…I couldn't put up with it, after a point." The apprentice sank down on his knees, abruptly. "I know that it was unbecoming…but he had no right—he didn't know…" Obi-Wan gave a deep sigh. "I apologize."

Qui-Gon stared at his apprentice, noting the submissive pose, the bowed head, the padawan braid dangling in a rather forlorn manner on the young man's shoulder. He rose from his seat, bent down in front of Obi-Wan, and tipped a dimpled chin. "Padawan, you should know better than to submit to such…mocking," he spoke gently—yet in a firm tone. "You've completed seventeen cycles…must you still be drawn into bets and guesses regarding my abilities_?" Helgheda thought he was old? _

"I should have known better, yes," came the padawan's subdued voice. "I'm afraid I gave into…lesser emotions. I wanted to prove—" The sigh came again. "You can always withdraw from participating, master…I suppose it can be arranged."

"Doubtless," was Qui-Gon's response. _They think I cannot dance—because I'm old. And decrepit, probably._ "Of course, it would have been easier if you had avoided the whole episode…now we will have to enter into lengthy, unnecessary explanations and arguments. This, my padawan, is a classic example of the effects of…ah—attracting unwarranted trouble. A lesson you will find very useful, on your own forays into negotiations—and one you're not bound to forget." _I am **not** old. Well, not in the way **they** think…. _

"No, master." Obi-Wan's head still remained bowed…but there was a slight, a very slight tremor to his voice, which the master did not fail to notice.

"I assume you've learnt—and documented, for future use, all that you could gather about Thra'a, and its features?"

"Yes."

"In that case, you may as well instruct me in the art of Thra'alian dance…and I shall do my best to save the reputation of the Jedi from an eternity of—er—disgrace."

It was barely discernible in the pale light that illumined the room—but Qui-Gon saw, nevertheless, that his apprentice's eyes had changed instantly from their faded grey, to a crystalline, blue-green. A strange smile played about the padawan's mouth. "Of course, master."

* * *

Dusk fell on Thra'a, once again, the next day—but this time, the crowds that lined to savour the evenings festivities—the last that would be held with the Jedi in attendance—had increased considerably. Ripples of talk rose and swelled through the ranks of men, women and children that thronged the huge, circular space that had been cleared for the dances…and it appeared that not a single esteemed citizen of the Warshida settlement—or indeed the neighbouring ones, had stayed at home.

Jedi master Qui-Gon Jinn threw a cursory glance at the crowd, and wondered what he—and his erstwhile, level-headed apprentice, had lead them both into. He had forsaken his customary Jedi robes (as instructed by the vivacious Helgheda), and was attired in…

"…rippling silk leggings, has he—and that is a _velvreen_ robe, around his shoulders, is it not?" came a disembodied—and decidedly female voice, from somewhere in the general direction of his left shoulder. "Never have I seen boots that fit so well…"

"And of a tallness! His hair, look you…"

The master blocked further conversation from invading his consciousness, and turned severe eyes towards Obi-Wan, who showed a marked tendency to collapse into chuckles. "Remind me, padawan, to set you onto an intensive course of meditation, when we're done with this—assignment."

Obi-Wan pursed his lips and schooled his expression into one of concentration…but his eyes sparkled with mirth.

Helgheda's eyes, on the other hand, sparkled more with contempt, than enjoyment. "Attire is not all," he said loftily, and waved towards Qui-Gon. "Revered Jedi master, shall we begin?"

"Certainly." Qui-Gon's voice held nothing but serenity and calmness. The master walked towards the crowd, which parted almost unconsciously, and watched the tall form make its way towards the centre. "I'm ready when you are, good 'Gheda."

Helgheda stood at the edge of the crowd—and began to speak in his native Thra'alian tongue—though they normally spoke Basic, Thra'alian came into force, as Obi-Wan knew, on special occasions. The Young Chief made his announcement, which the crowd greeted with a loud, and what seemed to be a very satisfying roar. One or two flowers fell at the feet of Qui-Gon—a sign which the Jedi Master had no difficulty in recognizing to be approval. Helgheda gave a sign and the drummers, seated at one corner of the sandy arena poised themselves. Qui-Gon waved a hand, upon which they stopped their preparation.

As murmurs of surprise ran through the expectant crowd, the master reached a hand towards his long hair, neatly gathered into a thick, wavy nerf-tail—and released the tie that bound the strands in one, easy sweep. At once, rich chestnut tresses fell to his shoulders, caressing his face, transforming him in an instant, from a severe, immovable Jedi master…into an exotic warrior of yore. Gone was the stern expression, and unyielding eyes—the latter held a decided gleam, and his whole posture spoke of one who was aware of what he needed to do—and how to go about it.

A collective gasp arose. Obi-Wan smiled, easing himself into the crowd. The drummers, grinned, correctly interpreting this sign of flamboyance, and began their accompaniment.

The first beat was struck…and Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn began what would later go down in Warshida history as one of best performances of Thra'alian dance in recent times—of the more exotic variety.

He had turned around, back towards the audience—a part of the audience, at any rate—and had begun, tapping one booted foot against the earthen floor. Within seconds, the beat had changed—the drummers had chosen to trap the master every way they could—and so did the dance. Master Jinn swept his hand gracefully, pulled off the robe that draped his shoulders, and began to twirl in a series of elegant twists and flips.

The crowd watched, entranced. The drummers, ever conscious of the master's movements, played their instruments as though they a part of it—but they anticipated Qui-Gon's movements a second too late, it seemed. His feet moved so quickly that they could hardly guess his moves…the master seemed to relish their confusion.

He leapt, turned, and twisted gracefully in the air, teased his audience by seeming to brush against them during the course of the dance—yet moving away at the last possible moment, as though perfectly aware of their thoughts…which he probably was. They gasped aloud as he turned an intricate somersault in the air—a variation of the _Scnedusi_ sabre manoeuvre, had they but known it—and wove into another suave movement, his robe swishing through certain members of the audience who gazed back at him, starry-eyed.

_We never practised **tha**t_, was Obi-Wan's brief thought as he watched his hitherto unbending master seemingly ripple through the air, hair flying loose about his face, landing perfectly on his feet, his knees slightly bent. _Oh Force, but that was beautiful_. He threw a look at Helgheda barely able to conceal his triumph—the Young Chief was staring at the performance, agape.

Finally, an hour later—though it seemed but a few minutes to the dazzled audience—the performance drew to a close. Jedi master Qui-Gon Jinn reached towards the young Thra'alian dancer (she who Obi-Wan had watched the evening before), threw her into a series of twists which he matched perfectly…and finished his presentation with a perfectly-timed twirl that brought them both face to face. A brief moment of awed silence ensued, and the master stepped back, bowed briefly, and draped the robe back onto his shoulders.

The arena exploded into frenzied applause. Catcalls and whistles followed in quick succession…and the crowd surged forward in a concentrated, powerful rush.

Qui-Gon moved away from the centre quickly—too quickly for entranced members of his audience to restrain him—and shouldered his way past, hair now liberally plastered to his forehead, though most of it still shrouded his face in rich chestnut waves.

Obi-Wan was waiting, face wreathed in a delighted smile, eyes sparkling in a manner that reminded the master of the crystalline depths of a _Shsren_ crystal. "Well, padawan mine?"

"I'm speechless," was the quiet response—but the padawan's voice gave away his true emotions. "I believe you've just re-written the Thra'alian standards of perfection, master."

They had already moved away in a direction exactly opposite their accommodation—master and apprentice had anticipated the next move of the former's spectators, and were intent on making their escape. Obi-Wan saw Helgheda in the distance, waving frantically. "Aren't you going to talk to him?"

"We will have enough opportunity to do so, tomorrow—when we finally leave." They had reached a sandy obstruction holding a clump of _gostri_ bushes—effectively screening them from outsiders, aided by Jedi masking techniques.

Qui-Gon threw a glance at his apprentice, who was engaged in opening a container of water—which the master raised to his lips almost at once. Force, but he was exhausted—Jedi resilience notwithstanding.

"I see that I have much to learn from you, master," Obi-Wan spoke, eyes twinkling. "Some of those twirls and taps might aid me considerably…"

"A valuable lesson indeed. You see now that there is something yet to be leant from _old_ masters, padawan mine."

"I believe Helgheda was the one who learnt that lesson particularly well," Obi-Wan chuckled. Qui-Gon smiled, stretching out his legs, and beginning to wrap his hair into some semblance of order. "And padawan…?"

Obi-Wan looked up from his task of closing the water-container, still smiling. "Yes, master?"

"The next time you wish to coerce me into some activity that is not part of a Master's schedule, Obi-Wan…try not to shield yourself too much. Most of all never let your voice tremble, my padawan leaner. It has never failed to give you away, thus far."

Silence reigned for a moment.

Obi-Wan groaned, shaking his head, his face a picture of mortification—while Jedi master Qui-Gon Jinn finally gave in to overwhelming mirth.

THE END.


End file.
